1. after years of protest and quick-wit out lashes of passion, you decide this time, to simply say, "thank you."
2. added to your, "thank you" is your, "i hear your. i hear
how scared you are. i hear that you're afraid i won't ever be safe in
the world, and i hear how upset you are with both of us for getting into
this spot, that you see no way out of. i hear that you want my future
to be safe. i hear that you don't trust the world, and in reality, don't
trust the way i am in the world. i hear you."
3. you ask, "what can you do to make yourself feel more safe in this situation?"
4. you let him do whatever he needs.
5. you hang up the phone with an, "i love you."
6. you let the swell of energy in your throat move toward your
collarbone, out to the edges of your shoulders, down to your elbows,
forearms, fingertips.
7. you write a new security. you
write a thousand ways out. you write the truth: that you are alive and
happier than you ever were under the scrutiny of cash-based worth
assessments. you write the other truth: that you know you are called to
make this world safer for the artists, mystics, healers and lovers. you
write up an offering, an invoice, a love letter, a thank you note. you
write a poem that goes like this:
8. dear dad,
the sky has plucked
my feathers of fear
one by one
i feel my nakedness
and i have already come undone
this skin-to-sun reality
this burning
is not a death to me
i know the names
of all the neighbors
and all the trees
the creek has held me
in my grief
and given of herself
in my thirst
there are worse things
in the world
than befriending the wild
isolation
is not my way
i'm okay here
i'm okay
love,
rachael
9. you get back to work.
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